


Have Faith, Don't Believe It

by Brrng



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Demon Hanzo Shimada, Hand Jobs, Hunter Jesse McCree, M/M, nothing ever goes as planned lbr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 15:22:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12560364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brrng/pseuds/Brrng
Summary: There are few things stronger than a demon on Halloween, and when something big, powerful, and demonic pops up on McCree's radar, he decides to book it rather than face it.It, of course, follows him back.Things don't go as planned.





	Have Faith, Don't Believe It

**Author's Note:**

> [Calm down, it's all right,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFnA-8H-5lo)  
> [Keep my arms the rest of the night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFnA-8H-5lo)  
> [When they ask what do I see,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFnA-8H-5lo)  
> [I say a bright white beautiful heaven hangin' over me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFnA-8H-5lo)  
>   
>  _\- Don’t Swallow the Cap (The National)_  
>   
>  For Ash.

There are a few things every demon hunter knows beside the basics of "this is a demon and this is how you kill it". How to tell a demon from a witch when their energy signatures had a bad habit of matching up was one - the fact that demons were almost impossible to go after on Halloween was another.  
   
It seemed obvious, sort of - when everyone is dressed up as cats or movie-monster witches or television characters, a demon in any form is going to find it easy to blend in. What's one well-made horned costume in a sea of similar (if cheaper-looking) disguises? But even that glossed over the root of the problem, which was that Halloween had the misfortune to be the more commercially accepted form of Samhain.  
   
And that was, of course, the one night a year when the veil blanketing the waking world from that of the dead was thinnest, allowing demons easier access to the power of the other side, making them a bitch and a half to deal with.  
   
It also meant that ghosts and various spirits liked to muck about, causing generalized chaos, but that didn't bother McCree so much. He wasn't a ghost hunter, though he sometimes thought fondly about days spent lounging around somewhere warm and nights of sending the recently deceased across the veil, Ghostbusters-style.  
   
He sighs. He had to be a demon hunter. He _had_ to tell Reyes that he'd deal with the problem on his own. He _had_ to answer the damn Craigslist ad for the _fucking_ demonic entity that didn't understand how doors worked.  
   
He sighs again, eyeing first the broken window across from him, then the pool of shattered glass spilling out and away from it. Third one this week with more, presumably, to come - did the demon think they were being clever? Did they just like breaking things? Certainly wouldn't be the first time McCree'd crossed paths with some asshole whose only joy in their unlife was spreading destruction wherever they went.  
   
A muted _thud_ from below breaks him from his thoughts and he freezes, grip tightening around his revolver, one hand going to stop the spur at the end from spinning slowly in reaction to the demonic presence. It was a handy thing, but a little noisy, and noise wasn't going to help him here. He turns his head towards the staircase, trusting the shadows to keep him out of view, waiting for the telltale sound of footsteps to draw nearer and -  
   
There.  
   
With practiced ease, McCree lands a flashbang at their feet and a bullet between the creature's stunned eyes. Two of them, at least - damn thing's got four, and his shot finds its mark between the lower set.  
   
The demon crumples to the floor in a heap and McCree lets out a breath. He takes a few steps towards the demon and crouches next to the unmoving body, studying it - four eyes, nublike horns, and blue-gray skin. It's still somewhat human-looking, he supposes, which means that it wasn't _too_ far gone, but the horns are a bad sign. He shakes his head, then moves his hand so that he's holding the spur at the base of his gun over all four of the creature's eyes.  
   
The spur stays still and McCree nods to himself, setting the gun to one side as he rummages in one pocket, searching for a vial of something Angela whipped up to help with body disposal.  
   
He tries not to think about what she must have had to put in it to get it to work.  
   
Carefully, so as not to create a hole in the floor - he knows the sickening feeling of the floor giving way under him, unceremoniously dropping him on the ground below _far_ too well - he pours the contents over the demon's body, hearing the familiar hissing sound as it begins to dissolve.  
   
He corks the vial, pocketing it again, when he sees something move out of the corner of his eye. In a heartbeat, his hand's on his gun and he's standing, searching for something in the darkness, but nothing shows itself. McCree stops, frowning at the empty space, and then slowly turns his head to look at the spur on his gun.  
   
It's spinning faster than he's ever seen it and he swears under his breath.  
   
He's only got a few bullets left - five, now that one's dissolving along with the rest of the demon's body - and considering that the spur's speed matches the strength of his opponent, he's gonna need all of them to land in the demon's most sensitive places if he's to drop it.  
   
He pauses, considers, and then with one booted foot he pushes the body in front of - and then down - the stairs and makes a break for the window.  
   
He hears something behind him but pays it no mind, rolling onto the ground and springing upright in a fluid motion. He wastes no time checking to see if the demon is following, focusing solely on escaping.  
   
McCree lifts Peacekeeper to eye level, watching the spur slow, and he holsters the gun as he speeds across the street, throwing open the door to his getaway and falling inside. He fumbles for his keys and then for the ignition, muttering "come _on_ " under his breath, and flinches as he feels a jolt through the car even as he speeds away.  
   
Did he get hit? He tries to look in the rearview mirror, but there's no one behind him. He frowns at the road ahead, putting on a little more speed, and tries not to think about it.  
   
He breaks out of the suburbs and onto the highway, relaxing a little as the familiar sight of the downtown skyscrapers soar up in front of him.  
   
A few minutes later - sooner than he expected, he must have been going faster than he thought - and McCree finds himself outside of a seedy-looking bar. He sighs, closing his eyes and allowing himself to relax a little, exchanging his serape for his hat.  
   
He pushes open the door, slams it shut, and turns to face whatever it is that hit his car.  
   
It's a fucking arrow.  
   
What the _fuck_.

With a grunt and a frown, he pulls the arrow out and turns it over in his hands, staring at the rounded tip and the lines of blue traveling up the shaft. Was the demon trying to aim for him? If that's the case, then it's lucky he'd sped away as fast as he had, because otherwise there'd be a hole in his skull to match his (probably dissolved by now) demon friend's. Though maybe that only happens when the damn things have actual points - why this one's rounded, he doesn't know.  
   
He grumbles a little, then snaps the arrow in half and tosses it aside to join the rest of the garbage on the side of the road as he steps into the bar.  
   
It's smoky and warm inside, loud and smelling of cheap liquor, and he lets the tension out of his shoulders. He makes a beeline for the bar, nodding to the bartender, who greets him with a familiar smile.  
   
"What'll it be? The regular?"  
   
McCree returns the smile. "That'd do nicely. Put it on my tab."  
   
He takes a seat, resting his elbows on the counter, and sighs, feeling uncomfortable even in the relative safety of the local dive. He takes the glass the bartender passes to him and drinks, moving his gaze up to the college football game playing on the shitty TV in the corner.  
   
"What'll it be?" comes the bartender's voice, breaking through the sounds of cheers as someone scores, and McCree glances towards the man the question is directed to.  
   
He fits right in at the bar, with a dark jacket and a bridge piercing, choppy hair tied back in style that should look cool, given his clothing, but instead just comes out looking severe. Even the shaved sides of his head don't change his unapproachable look, even though with hair like that he should look like a magazine hipster. He's certainly good-looking enough for the job. 

McCree makes a thoughtful noise as he tosses back the rest of his drink and tunes back into the TV, torn between winding down from an eventful night with some casual conversation - maybe even with the severe (ly attractive) stranger and leaving for home so that he might pass out in peace.  
   
"You seem out of sorts," comes a voice, and McCree looks over to see the newcomer watching him, drink in hand.  
   
"S'been a rough night," he allows, looking away.  
   
"Nothing a drink or two can't fix, I hope."  
   
McCree supposes there are worse things than having a decision taken out of his hands when it's an attractive man doing the taking.  
   
"I find myself hopin' the same thing." He turns slightly, then extends a hand towards the stranger. "Name's Jesse."  
   
The stranger hesitates for a moment before taking his hand, shaking it once. His hand is warm. "…Hanzo. It is nice to meet you."  
   
"Likewise." He turns back, gesturing towards his empty glass, and takes a drink as soon as it's refilled. "Can't say I've seen you 'round here before," he says, before pointedly looking the man - Hanzo - up and down. "What's a guy like you doin' in a place like this? On Halloween, no less."  
   
Hanzo hesitates again, and McCree's eyes are drawn to a long, tube-like container slung across his back. It's capped, preventing him from seeing the insides, and in any other bar he'd have been stopped at the door if he'd tried to come in with that thing on. Of course, this one didn't even bat an eye the first time McCree brought his gun - but he finds himself wondering what could be hidden within.  
   
"I am trying to find someone," Hanzo says, after a moment.  
   
McCree raises an eyebrow. "At a shitty place like this?" He glances towards the bartender, adds, "No offense," and the bartender shrugs in a 'well, it's true' kind of way.  
   
"It seemed like a good place to look."  
   
McCree shrugs. "Guess you'd know better than I would." He turns back to the TV when a faint, metallic jingling reaches his ears.  
   
He glances down to his side, where Peacekeeper rests in its holster, and he swears his heart stops when he sees the spur just barely poking out start turning. It's slow in a lagging sort of way, and McCree swears softly before holding it between his fingers.  
   
"Something wrong?"  
   
He looks towards Hanzo and manages a small smile and a shake of his head. "Nah. Just thinkin' it's about time I started for home."  
   
He finishes his drink and slides some cash towards the bartender, standing up just a little too quickly, and nods towards Hanzo. "See you 'round sometime."  
   
He walks out, though he swears he can feel the gaze of someone - maybe even Hanzo - burning to his back as he goes. As soon as the door closes behind him he checks his gun again, tapping the spur with one finger to kickstart the enchantment again. The thing's enchanted to spin only around some sort of demonic presence, and if the slow-as-syrup movement earlier was any indication, the demon from earlier - or one of equal power - had followed him to the bar and used its heightened, bullshit Samhain powers to mask itself.  
   
This day was just getting better and better.  
   
He leans against the wall, tipping his head back until he can feel it through his hat, and then pushes off and resolves to see Angela in the morning about a tracking spell, not that she'd call it that. There's no way in hell he's dealing with some high-class demon on a Tuesday night.  
   
He reaches his car when he hears the bar door open behind him. He doesn't pause, instead ducking down into the front seat and turning the key even before the door's fully closed. Just as he's about to pull away, he looks back to the bar, narrowing his eyes when he sees the abandoned street and a lack of people outside. He supposes someone could have just poked their head out and gone back in, but -  
   
"You may wish to start driving."  
   
Of course not.  
   
He fights back the instinct to jump out of the car, instead leaning on the wheel and turning to see the attractive stranger from the bar sitting in the passenger side. He glances back and - ah, so not only did Hanzo break into his car, he broke in with enough time to toss his clothes in the back.  
   
"I might've," he says, slowly, "but to drive off without askin' what a guy like you's doin' in a car like mine? That's just rude."  
   
In the dim streetlight, McCree can see the whites of Hanzo's eyes - and then they're all white, and he has no pupils, and McCree knows he's probably fucked.  
   
"I told you I was looking for someone."  
   
McCree stays silent, watching Hanzo warily. "…So you did."  
   
"Would you be so surprised if I said I was looking for you?"  
   
McCree sighs and leans back, giving Hanzo a dark look. "Get out of my car."  
   
"Not until you answer my questions."  
   
McCree almost crosses his arms, then decides that he doesn't want to die in front of a shitty bar. He takes off, instead, fighting back a laugh when Hanzo jolts at the sudden movement.  
   
"That was unkind," says the man - demon, probably, what else could he be?  
   
"So's breakin' into a man's car," says McCree.  
   
He's quiet for a moment and McCree sighs again. He doesn't know where he's headed - he's going fast enough that he's zipped back onto the highway, though in a different direction than the suburbs where Hanzo apparently first found him. He figures he'll drive aimlessly and then head straight for Reyes - he's bound to be awake at this ungodly hour, and he lives in the middle of nowhere, so he won't have to deal with little trick-or-treaters getting spooked at the sight of the man's shotguns.  
   
"Why did you kill her?"  
   
Hanzo's voice breaks McCree from his thoughts, and he glances over, confusion on his face. "The woman at the house," he clarifies, "though you may think her species is more important than her gender."  
   
"Was she a woman?" mumbles McCree.  
   
"Yes."  
   
"Hell." He changes lanes, making his way towards the mountains, and idly wonders if Hanzo will kill him as soon as they're out of view. "Because I was hired to, I s'pose."  
   
"You are a hunter," Hanzo says, in a way that isn't quite a question but turns up at the end anyways.  
   
"Sometimes."  
   
"Why were you hired to kill her, then?"  
   
"Breaking into people's homes, just about killin' a kid," he pauses, focusing on a particularly sharp turn. "And considerin' the date, keepin' her from going after more of them with the adrenaline high that y'all get from the thinning of the veil. You know. The usual."  
   
Hanzo's silent for a few minutes. "You are a strange sort of hunter."  
   
"Not really."  
   
"You have a reason for which to end her life."  
   
He glances over again. "D'you meet a lot of hunters that go 'round killin' anyone they see?"  
   
Hanzo hesitates. "I have met many," he says, eventually, "and of them, very few are as… prejudiced in their killings as you claim to be."  
   
McCree grunts. "Sounds like they've all been assholes."  
   
Hanzo laughs before he can stop himself, and despite the fact that he's _consorting with a demon on Halloween_ McCree finds himself grinning ever so slightly.  
   
"You are still a very strange man."  
   
He flashes Hanzo a grin. "You make that sound like a bad thing."  
   
Hanzo laughs again, but softer this time. "It is not meant that way."  
   
McCree slows the car, pulling to a stop at the side of the road. He turns, leaning against the car door so that he can face Hanzo, even if he can barely see him with the only real light coming from faint lights inside.  
   
Hanzo turns slightly, looking at McCree almost warily, the good humor suddenly gone. "Why did you stop?"  
   
"Why'd you get in my car?"  
   
Hanzo shifts in his seat. "I had questio-"  
   
"You could've asked 'em at the bar," interrupts McCree.  
   
"I could have." McCree waits, and after a few moments Hanzo sighs. "I admit, I was - am - curious about you" He frowns towards McCree, as if this is some great admission that he would have preferred to keep to himself. "I had my suspicions as to whether or not you were a hunter, let alone the one who was able to dispatch a demon so easily on a night of great power."  
   
It's McCree's turn to shift a little uncomfortably at the compliment. "Nah, I reckon it's more of a catchin' someone at the right time kind of thing. Got lucky."  
   
Hanzo watches him carefully. "Perhaps." He sighs again, then looks away. "No matter. You have answered my questions."  
   
"You didn't answer mine, not quite," McCree says, and Hanzo pauses.  
   
"Did I not?" At the shake of McCree's head, he raises one shoulder in a shrug. "Had you been one of the… more violent hunters, I did not wish to bring the unwitting patrons of the bar into the inevitable fight."  
   
McCree nods, slowly, then laughs. "Courteous of you," he says, "though I gotta say, gettin' me all alone? My, what will they say."  
   
Hanzo looks briefly mortified at the implications and McCree can't help his laugh.  
   
"I am not _that_ kind of demon," he says, a little huffily, and McCree grins at him.  
   
"No," he says, finally, "you're quite alright."  
   
He lets out a breath and turns back to the road, then slowly moves forwards. It's a more leisurely pace than the one he took to get this far up, and he finds himself mentally mapping the way back towards the city instead of the fastest way to get Reyes to deal with his problem.  
   
Hanzo's quiet, watching the mountains go by, and McCree eventually is the one who breaks the silence. "Do you have somewhere you need to go?"  
   
"Not particularly."  
   
Well, guess he doesn't have to worry about getting off on the right exit.  
   
He waits a few moments, then asks, "You're a powerful demon, even without the aid of Samhain, aren't you?"  
   
When Hanzo doesn't immediately respond, McCree glances over, and see that he looks almost embarrassed. Well, McCree supposes that he'd been embarrassed when Hanzo complimented him earlier, but - still.  
   
"I… yes."  
   
"What's it like, havin' all that extra power?"  
   
"Heady," Hanzo says, more readily than he did before. "Like alcohol affects you humans, so does this affect us."  
   
McCree laughs. "Don't s'pose you get hungover after a night like this, do you?"  
   
Hanzo shakes his head, a slight grin on his face, and McCree can't help but take a moment to admire the way the smile makes his already-handsome face seem brighter. "No, there are no hangovers. Just the waning of power. It is much like growing tired."  
   
McCree makes a thoughtful sound at that. He keeps his eyes on the road, turning a corner so that the city can be seen, laid out below, and when he finally looks over he sees Hanzo's gaze meeting his.  
   
"See somethin' you like?" he says, offhandedly.  
   
"Perhaps," says Hanzo.  
   
He started it. He started it, the - the casual flirting, he's done this before, _why is he blushing like a schoolgirl_.  
   
The city approaches slower than McCree is used to, and he finds himself decidedly avoiding eye contact, hoping that the oncoming lights don't make it obvious how his cheeks have started to heat up. When he catches his gaze straying, he pointedly stares at the clock instead, watching the time pass by - 10:35, 10:42, 10:57. He navigates across half the city before the streets go from familiar to home, and then he's pulling up in front of a string of apartment buildings - not nice enough to be in the center of town, but not rundown, either.  
   
He parks and the faint glow of the car's insides goes dark, though the streetlights offer enough light to see by. He rests his arms on the steering wheel, thinking and overthinking, and then - he'll blame the alcohol, later - suddenly says, almost a question but not quite, "I know you said you had nowhere in particular to be - I don't s'pose you'd like to come in."  
   
Hanzo freezes in his seat, watching McCree carefully, and he almost kicks himself with how strange it's gotta be, being invited into a hunter's home when you're a demon, and one like-  
   
"Sure," he says.  
   
Oh.  
   
Well, alright.  
   
He retrieves his discarded serape and lets them into the building, torn between feeling oddly excited and terribly anxious. It's been a while since he brought anyone home, amorous intentions or no, let alone a _demon_. It's… he'll admit, he doesn't have a high opinion of the folk. But Hanzo is… something else, and he's an attractive something else, and if he's going to die at the hands of a powerful demon at his strongest, well, he's gonna go out with a bang.  
   
As soon as he opens the door, he's hit by the fact that he really should not have invited Hanzo back here. Not because he's a demon, or because McCree's prone to making reckless decisions even without a drink in his system, but because he hasn't cleaned the apartment in a month and it shows.  
   
There's some dirty clothing on the floor near the bedroom, a mostly-empty pizza box on the couch, and a small mountain of Chinese takeout containers on the kitchen counter. More importantly, there is a demon behind him, the kind of person who would make a three-piece suit look casual, and who McCree is almost sure will laugh at him.  
   
Hanzo, to his credit, does not.  
   
He wrinkles his nose - the gesture is almost cute, and McCree wonders at how it doesn't look at all out of place on his features - but otherwise makes no comment, toeing off his shoes at the door and leaving them next to McCree's battered boots, carefully setting the tube from his back next to them. He does give the room a hard look, starting with McCree's hat (now hanging by the door), and eventually moving towards a small table by the wall so he can pick up a decorative glass jar and peer inside of it.  
   
McCree hurries to the kitchen, pizza box in hand, and shoves it into the fridge before starting to move Mount Everest, one box at a time. "Angie made that," he says, nodding to the jar, once he follows Hanzo's line of sight. "Something, something, helpful something."  
   
"It is a ward," Hanzo says, turning it over in his hands.  
   
"That sounds about right."  
   
"This… Angie… is a witch?"  
   
"Reckon she must be. Never just out and said it, 'course, but what she does works wonders."  
   
Hanzo nods, making a noise of agreement and sets the jar down, moving towards the counter that he can finally see, now that the takeout's gone. "Do you know what it is supposed to ward against?"  
   
McCree looks back at it, then shrugs. "If I'd have guessed yesterday, I'd've said demons, but here you are, no worse for wear."  
   
"It is to ward against demons," Hanzo says, almost absently. "It is, however, only against demons that wish you harm." He pauses, then adds, "I do not know if it is an oversight on her part or a deliberate working."  
   
McCree leans against the far counter, then shrugs. "Well, it's kind of her nonetheless." He watches Hanzo for a moment, then smiles and says, "Guess that means you must like me. Not wishing me harm and all."  
   
Hanzo sputters something that sounds like a weak protest but McCree cuts him off. "Want something to drink? I've got… coffee. And sweet tea."  
   
He pulls a face at the sound of sweet tea. "…Water would be fine."  
   
The next few minutes go something like this:  
   
When McCree pushes the glass to Hanzo, their fingertips touch briefly, and he swears he felt something even through the prosthetic.  
   
He asks Hanzo a question about something demony - something about his eyes? - and it leads into a semi-heated, but in a joking sort of way, discussion about McCree's fashion sense. He's not sure what Hanzo has against flannel button-ups and jeans, but when he asks and Hanzo says, "I'd prefer them on the floor," he finds he doesn't quite mind.  
   
There's a sort of clarity in the next moment, Hanzo's face going beet-red as he realizes what he said, and McCree moves around the counter with a few hushed questions to the effect of "is that what I think it is", and then -  
   
Well.  
   
McCree doesn’t quite know how he ended up hovering over Hanzo, but he finds that he's not opposed to being in this position. He's pretty sure he's breaking Reyes' heart, making out with a demon in his living room, but the feeling of Hanzo kissing him back, one hand at the back of his head and the other running down his side, is enough to push thoughts of his old mentor - and, to be fair, most others - far from his mind.  
   
He doesn't know how long they spend there, but it's long enough, and he runs one hand up Hanzo's chest and feels him shiver even through the jacket. He feels for the zipper, fumbling around until it's open, and Hanzo moves obligingly so that the jacket can fall to the floor.  
   
He's wearing only a thin, grey shirt underneath and McCree dips down towards the exposed skin above the collar. He can just see the tips of a light-grey-and-blue swirl of a tattoo and he dips down towards it, smiling against Hanzo's collarbone when he hears the choked noise he makes in response to the feeling of McCree's mouth on his skin. 

"Thought you said you 'weren't that kind of demon'," McCree mumbles, and Hanzo barks out a laugh.  
   
One of Hanzo's hands moves to the base of McCree's shirt, pulling at it insistently, and loathe as he is to move away the idea of him being shirtless - or, better, Hanzo being shirtless - sounds pretty great right about now.  
   
He sits back, fumbling with buttons, and Hanzo - apparently as eager as McCree feels - decides that's taking too long, so he instead runs one impatient hand down the buttons and the shirt falls open.  
   
"Well," breathes McCree, sounding a little breathless, "that's handy."  
   
Hanzo sits up a little, one arm moving back to support his weight as he leans away, and McCree just stops and watches him for a moment even as Hanzo watches him. Hanzo's eyes trace the connection of his prosthetic to his flesh arm, one hand moving up past the spot where metal turns to skin to rest on McCree's shoulder. He swears he can see Hanzo's pupils alternately fading and reappearing, the faintest traces of what appear to be more tattoos blinking in and out of existence above his eyebrows and spilling down his arm.  
   
"How far," Hanzo asks, after a moment's pause, "do you intend on taking this?"  
   
"As far as you'd like to go, darlin'."  
   
Hanzo's cheeks go red at the offhanded endearment, but he shakes his head, dropping his hand so that he can lean back a little further. "It is," he pauses, searching for a way to describe it. "It is more difficult to keep up a human form when things get… heated."  
   
McCree looks at him carefully, then asks, "And your demon form…"  
   
"Is easier, and humanoid," says Hanzo, "but not exactly human."  
   
McCree leans back, giving Hanzo space. "Show me?"  
   
Hanzo seems to waver in his decision, just for a moment, but he nods. It's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it kind of change, but McCree watches as Hanzo's skin takes on a gray hue, darker than the shirt still covering his chest, and the swirling reds of what promises to be an _incredible_ tattoo bloom over his shoulder and up his neck. His eyes go pure white, not unlike how they'd looked when he first showed up in McCree's car, but - he's still humanoid.  
   
That's a relief - the more humanoid the demon looks, the less… well, _demonic_ they were. Some sort of cosmic balance, giving hunters an idea as to which demons were worth being reasonable with and which were too far gone to be worth giving a chance. Hanzo shifts slightly, looking almost worried at what McCree's reaction will be; it's a little hard to tell the exact emotion, what with the "no pupils" and "scary-lookin' face" and all.  
   
He can't blame him for being worried. It must be some sort of breach of protocol, showing your true demonic form to a human, let alone a demon _hunter_. But Hanzo seems comfortable, if not in his skin than in his power, and McCree leans forwards. "Tell me if - and when - you want to stop," he says, and he presses his lips back to Hanzo's.  
   
In between kisses, sometimes quick and sometimes quite a lot longer, McCree manages to relieve Hanzo of his shirt and gets an eyeful of the tattoo that graces his arm and chest, deep colors that stand out against Hanzo's gray skin. He presses a kiss to that, too, and hears Hanzo mumble something from above his head, and then he's tugging McCree back up to meet his mouth.  
   
Oh.

Well.

Wouldn't you know, Hanzo's demon form has fangs.  
   
"I think," McCree says, pulling back a little, "that we should move this somewhere with a little more space."  
   
Hanzo looks up at him, biting at his lip ever-so-slightly, and then he nods.  
   
They stumble their way towards McCree's bedroom - Hanzo barely gets to look around (a good thing, his bedroom is as messy as the rest of the place) before McCree's crowding him against the door, stealing another few kisses until Hanzo pushes him back with one hand on his chest.  
   
"What happened to space?"  
   
McCree flashes him a smile in lieu of an answer and moves towards the bed, feeling Hanzo close behind. One hand moves towards the front of his jeans, and he pauses, turning slightly, question in his eyes.  
   
Hanzo inclines his head in response, sitting down and then leaning back on the bed, and looks at McCree in a way that makes his head spin and his blood rush down somewhere low. He leans over, instead, resting his hands on either side of Hanzo while he feels a hand snake around his neck to tangle in his hair.  
   
He pulls back, one hand drifting south, and Hanzo's breath hitches. "Still good?"  
   
Hanzo makes a noise that sounds awfully like a growl, using the hand in McCree's hair to pull him back down in a biting kiss. "Keep going."  
   
McCree smiles again, his free hand moving to work at his own belt - he'd never really been embarrassed about the buckle, but it usually got a good laugh out of people, or made Jack angry, so it was a great investment all around - and he lets it fall to the floor with a dull thud.  
   
Then there's a sort of rushed clarity, as McCree finds Hanzo's pants half off and his own starting to fall, his hand reaching down to palm at Hanzo through his underwear. Everything feels so much _more_ , like the difference between staring at a photograph and living the moment yourself, and he doesn't want to miss a second of it.  
   
"You," says McCree, punctuating the word with another dizzying kiss, "are goddamn beautiful."  
   
He's not entirely sure if there's some sort of unspoken rule about words like "god" and "damn" when talking to demons, but with the kinds of sounds Hanzo's making and the way he's kissing him back, McCree figures that rules have long since gone out the window.  
   
Hanzo pulls him in closer until McCree has to balance one leg on the bed, almost astride him, and he can't deny that the angle's appealing - each time he pulls away, the shuttered light coming from the window shines across Hanzo's face, catching his features so _perfectly_.  
   
He marvels over Hanzo's looks for a long moment; the thin beard, the curls of tattoos over his eyebrows, and doesn't protest with anything more than a chuckle when Hanzo impatiently pulls him back in.  
   
One of his arms loops across Hanzo's shoulders while the other - the flesh one, of course, he wants to feel _everything_ \- dips down again, feeling the length of him through the fabric, and he grins against Hanzo's mouth.  
   
"Are," breathes Hanzo, pulling away only a little, "are you going to anything more than touch and stare?"  
   
"I could stare at you forever," McCree whispers, and he feels Hanzo shiver against him.  
   
"Later," he says, and he almost says something more but the words die on his tongue when McCree's hand slips past the band of his underwear and skin meets skin.  
   
From there, McCree falls into a rhythm of long, slow strokes matched with long, slow kisses, going and going with only a brief pause somewhere near the middle, when McCree manages to get Hanzo's briefs off - he doesn't get much of a look at Hanzo's mostly-naked form as he's dragged back in for a searing kiss.  
   
McCree is suddenly struck by how easily the both of them respond to each other.  
   
He feels Hanzo tensing beneath him and pulls back, focusing his attention on Hanzo's dick. He can feel Hanzo's grip tightening in his hair and he reacts accordingly, gaze locked on his face even as his hand runs up and down, thumb rubbing across the head with every pass, and he watches as Hanzo's eyes squeeze shut and he shudders with his release.  
   
It pools in the palm of McCree's hand and he slows, letting out a long breath and pressing his lips to the corner of Hanzo's mouth before pulling back and rummaging for a towel amongst the clutter on his floor. He can see Hanzo slumping back with a sigh, pulling his briefs back up before angling his head so that he can see McCree clearly, and he's beautiful in the thin trails of night light.  
   
"You did not come," he says, a little softly, gaze darting from part of McCree's face to another.  
   
McCree shrugs, wiping his hand clean and then dropping it back on the floor to be dealt with in the morning. "Nah, I-"  
   
"Allow me," he murmurs, shifting upright and taking hold of McCree's arm, tugging first at his jeans so that they fall to the ground and then at his arm so that he falls onto the bed next to him.  
   
McCree can't deny the spark of interest he feels at Hanzo divesting him of his boxers and experimentally rubbing across his tip. Hanzo props himself up on his free hand, leaving McCree to relax into the comforter as his hand starts to move further up, and he makes an appreciative noise at the feeling.  
   
He'd forgotten what it felt like, to have a hand that wasn't his wrapped around him - let alone a hand attached to a person like Hanzo. Hanzo's hand moves, a steady up-down-around-up and he finds himself pushed to the edge far sooner than he expected.  
   
He bites at his lip to keep from sounding out, then hurriedly starts to say, "I'm, I'm gonna-" only to have Hanzo's mouth crush itself to his, cutting off his words as he comes. He can do little more than kiss back as he finishes, breaking it off with a sharp intake of breath before he falls back, head hitting the bed with a thump.  
   
"Where…?"  
   
"Jus'," McCree starts, blinking up at the ceiling, "I… the floor, probably."  
   
He hears Hanzo shifting so that he can sift through the mess of McCree's room, and then his soft voice breaks the silence. "Do you make a habit of keeping the contents of your closet on the floor?"  
   
McCree shrugs, accepting the towel - a different one, damn, how many does he have lying around? - and cleaning himself up. "I'll clean later."  
   
He balls up the towel and tosses it back where it came from, staring up at the ceiling, then turning to look at Hanzo. He can just barely make him out, gray skin blending into the shadows of the room, then says, "That was amazin'."

He feels, more than sees, the somewhat embarrassed way Hanzo shifts where he sits and looks away from him and he chuckles, then asks, "What now?"  
   
Hanzo looks back to him with an unreadable expression. "Now?"  
   
"Yeah," he says, pushing himself up. "Do you - do you want to stay? Grab your stuff and go?"  
   
Hanzo hesitates, looking between McCree and the far wall, and he's silent for so long that McCree starts kicking himself for even asking. He's just about to take it back, tell him to forget he asked, when-  
   
"If it is of no trouble to you," comes the measured response, "I will stay."  
   
McCree's smile is soft but exceptional in its warmth, and he tugs at Hanzo's arm, pulling the both of them down. He turns slightly, pushing at his prosthetic limb until the pin releases and he feels it come loose, dropping it down onto the ground. He lays back, reclining into the pillows, and then Hanzo's lying next to him, one arm draping across his chest and it feels _right_ and for a day that started as shitty as this one, McCree finds that he's not going to argue with the way it ended.

**Author's Note:**

> you know, things you intend to only go for maybe 1k, tops, have this really terrible habit of spiraling out of control
> 
> exhibit a: this fic
> 
> (also, demon craigslist is totally a thing, i'm callin it here)


End file.
